


Fissure

by Tofu_is_amazing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Hunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:51:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tofu_is_amazing/pseuds/Tofu_is_amazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's something about how Sam is looking at him that doesn't feel right. Sam doesn't look at him like before, there's something more in his gaze, and Dean doesn't understand what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So what do you think?"

To be perfectly honest, Dean’s thinking about the small diner they drove past earlier before the checked into their motel. He thinks about the neon letters shining in the night, « free desserts on Sundays », the « y » flickering in rhythm, and his stomach gurgles his agreement. He’s so hungry he could eat a whole cow, and still have some space left for free desserts. They drove all day, never stopping unless they had to refill the gas tank, and they talked about the case relentlessly since they left their previous motel room early that morning. So right now, the three dead guys lying in refrigerate fridges at the morgue aren’t really his top priority. They’re already dead anyway, they can wait.

"I think I’d think better with food and a beer."

Sam looks at him quietly for a second, and then just nods. He’s hungry too. They take their jackets and leave their motel room. Behind the wheel, Dean feels good, and it’s almost a shame that the dinner is so close. Driving like this, with Sam next to him, that’s the closest thing he has from Home. Sometimes he thinks hunting is just an excuse to be on the road, all the time, never settling down, never staying anywhere for more than a week. He likes that, he likes the different landscapes, he likes swallowing the white stripes painted on the road, he likes his car, no, he _loves_ his car, and he loves his brother. He loves when Sam bitches because he can’t stretch his legs, he loves when Sam’s neck is settled at an awkward angle against the car window, when he’s softly snoring with his lips slightly parted. He also loves when Sam drives, even if he’s never gonna admit it. Being in the Impala means being safe. It means taking a break between two cases, and not thinking about the big mess that is their life. When he parks the impala in front of the dinner, Sam doesn’t even bother to ask why Dean chose this particular place. The neon sign with the red letters is his answer. They come in and the dinner is almost empty, except for a couple sitting near the entry and an old guy drinking beer at the counter. It’s a nice and quiet place, much cleaner that most of the dinners they stop by when they’re on the road.

They sit at a table near the exit door, you’re never too careful, and a waitress is there immediately, genuine smile and big blue eyes.

"Gentlemen, hi, I’m Mindy."

Dean flushes her his typical "how you doin’" grin and he’s looking at her but he can feel Sam rolling his eyes on the other side of the booth.

"Hi Mindy."

She doesn’t seem to find Dean that charming because she still smiles but turns her head towards Sam, handing him one menu while she just puts Dean’s in front of him on the table. The way she looks at Sam is obvious, and if that wasn’t enough, the way she flips her long blond hair behind her shoulder in the most gracious way is definitely classified as flirting. Sam doesn’t seem to notice, he just thanks her and starts reading his menu. Mindy narrows her eyes, clearly she’s not used to this kind of reaction. Then she just shrugs a little, a silent way of admitting she’s not gonna fight much for the tall handsome dude who’s apparently oblivious to how pretty she is, and she’s back to regular waitressing.

"Desserts on the house tonight", she says, still smiling, before walking away.

Dean is watching Sam and sighs loudly, drawing his brother’s attention from his menu.

"What?"

Dean sighs, again.

"Dude, it’s like we’re not even related."

Sam frowns, and _Jesus Sam,_ he really doesn’t have any idea what Dean’s talking about.

"Come on man, Mindy-blue-eyes-blond-hair-angelic-smile is hitting on you so hard it should hurt and you don’t even notice?"

Sam turns his head and looks at the counter, where Mindy’s giving another beer to the old guy who seems glued to his sit.

"Really?" he asks.

"Jesus Sam, are you blind?"

Sam looks at Dean, apparently trying to find something on his brother’s face that would tell him Dean is just messing with him. But Dean looks at him like he’s talking to a particularly stupid guy so Sam just goes back to his menu.

"No interested anyway", he says.

"Why not? She’s cute."

Sam doesn’t even bother lifting his head from the menu.

"Just because someone’s cute doesn’t mean we need to fuck."

"Oh yeah, sorry I forgot, you want to put a ring on their fingers before you put your fingers in their panties."

Sam shoots him daggers with his eyes, his mouth a thin line.  
"Fuck off."

Dean lifts his hands, open palms.  
"I’m just sayin’."

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirks a little.  
"What, exactly, are you saying? That I need to be a little more like you?"

And it’s Dean’s turn to be offended.  
"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means", Sam says with a grin on his face now that this talk turns to his advantage, "that you do enough fucking for the both of us and that I don’t understand why you still bother wearing underwear when we go out to dinners and bars."

Dean snorts.  
"Who says I wear any", he shoots back.

Sam stops talking, his mouth still open, and he just looks at his brother. Dean smiles lazily, bracing his hands behind his head, and relaxes on the booth. His whole body screams victory, and usually it would piss Sam off, but Sam just closes his mouth and goes back to his menu, a light pink flush on his cheeks.

Mindy comes back a few minutes after that, and writes their order on her small notepad. Dean notices the way Sam avoids making eye contact with her, and he just shakes his head. Their food is on the table only a few minutes later, and they eat silently, both enjoying the calm atmosphere of the dinner. Once they’re done, Sam has this half-smile plastered on his face while he’s looking at Dean, the one smile that shows that deep affection he has for his brother and how much he knows him, and Dean doesn’t understand what he did to deserve this, but he takes it anyway, because it makes Sam’s face softer, younger, and it’s a pale reflection of the kid he once was.

"I guess we’re staying for dessert?" Sam says.

~

An hour later, they’re back to the room, and Dean is so full he thinks he might actually have eaten too much. But free desserts means free pies, and in Dean’s dictionary, it’s the exact definition of Heaven. Sam’s taking a shower and Dean is on his bed, laying on his stomach, the file of the case they’re working on in front of him. Three guys dropped dead over the last two months. From what Dean and Sam gathered, they didn’t know each other, they weren’t working in the same area, they didn’t live next to each other, they weren’t the same age, the same religion, and none seemed to have been spending extra hours on obscure demonic cults. Regular guys. But all dead, all of them spilling their guts – literally – and it could be just the regular-psychopath crap, except that there aren’t any known drugs that can make you vomit your own stomach and intestines until you die. And according to the coroner’s report, there wasn’t anything strange in their blood. Nothing. One was drunk, that’s pretty much it.

That’s why he and Sam are here, another nameless town, another job. Everything is new and familiar at the same time. Same rituals, same fake ids, same lies, same suits. Different victims, different witnesses, different monster. An old routine, and a new job. Dean closes the file, there’s nothing new here since the last time he checked, and he turns around to lay on his back. _Shit I definitely ate too much_ , he thinks. He takes off his shirt without ever standing up and rubs his belly. _Come on man, don’t give up on me_. He feels heavy and all he wants to do is to take a shower and sleep, even if it’s not even 11 pm. Sam comes out of the bathroom, wet hair and flushed skin. He stops in his tracks when he sees Dean, and stares at his brother’s chest, as if there was something particularly interesting written on Dean’s skin.

"Something’s wrong with me?"

Sam’s head snaps up and he mumbles something Dean understands as "it’s about time you notice something’s wrong with you", and he takes the file from Dean’s bed and sits on his. Dean doesn’t answer, he’s too tired for this, and he goes in the bathroom with clean clothes in his hands.

Sam has left some hot water and Dean sighs happily when the first drops hit him. He doesn’t have much to look forward to with the kind of life they have, but showers are definitely on the list. He doesn’t dream about growing old, settling down, having a dog, new leather seats for his car, birthday parties and white picket fences. He dreams about showers, about surprisingly good burgers, clean sheets in the next room, homemade slices of pie. Those are the only things he allows himself to dream about. A hot shower with great water pressure is a gift, and he enjoys it as much as some people would enjoy a trip to a South Pacific island. It’s a treasure, the feeling of each drop rolling down his spine. He relaxes completely, and stays under the spray until the water runs cold. When he’s dressed and out of the bathroom, Sam is still buried in the case file.

"Found anything in there?"

Sam just shrugs, and then shakes his head.

"I don’t know, I just don’t see the connection between those guys."

"You know, maybe they just spoke to the same person, some freaking witch or something, maybe they just walked down the same road… I mean, it could be a lot of things that aren’t in this file. Maybe they all ate in the same dinner, or -"

He stops talking and puts his hand on his stomach, a sudden fear spreading through him. Sam raises his head when he hears that Dean’s not finishing his sentence and his gaze follows Dean’s arm to his belly.  
"I’m pretty sure they didn’t die of free desserts you know."

"How can you tell?"

Sam just smiles and rubs his eyes with his hands.

"Yeah, you’re right. Well… We’ll see that in a few hours, I guess."

Dean feels terribly sick, and it must be showing on his face because Sam chuckles.  
"Dean, you’re not gonna die of a pie overdose. The victims stomachs weren’t full of pastries. Relax."

Dean just nods but he doesn’t really feel any better. Sam closes the file and puts it on the small table that’s in their room. He goes back to his bed and slips under the covers. Dean does the same and he switches off the light. In the darkness, they can ear the traffic on the highway, a lullaby they know by heart, and somehow a comforting background noise. It’s a few minutes before Dean speaks again.

"Sam?"

"Mh?"

"I’ve been thinking."  
  
"Did it hurt?"

"Shut up. When you think about it, if that thing was some kind of pie-disease, then I think I’d rather die."

Sam doesn’t laugh, but Dean can hear the smile in his voice when his brother answers.  
"I know."

And they stop talking, because Dean knows what Sam means with this. He knows his brother so well, he knows it’d be a nightmare to live in a world where you can’t even trust desserts. It’s the small things, but it’s what makes Dean’s life better than anyone else’s. Sam always there, Sam always understanding him, Sam always looking at him as if he was an open-book, always guessing his thoughts. There’s no one else in Dean’s life, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Sam is everything, and it sometimes feels weird when Dean thinks about it. But it’s true nonetheless. He loves Sam, truly, deeply, loves him. He knows it’s more than just being brothers, because he’s seen how siblings act around each other, and what he and Sam share is more. It’s more than that, because none of those people he saw would bring their sibling back from the dead once they die. Dean would do it a thousand times. There’s an invisible string between them that always bring them closer to each other, it’s a magnetic force that just push them towards the other. The went separate ways several times, but they always ended up back together. Because unless they’re side by side, it doesn’t feel right.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, they wake up early and when Dean gets out of bed, he catches Sam looking at him. It's here again, that look Dean can't quite decipher. Sam's staring at him when he thinks Dean doesn't know, and his gaze burns Dean's skin. Sam looks at him as if his brother is gonna disappear the next second. It could make Dean uncomfortable, it probably should, but truth be told, Dean doesn't really mind. He doesn't give it much thought, but he's catching Sam staring more and more, and everytime Sam realizes he's doing it again, he quickly looks away and doesn't dare looking at Dean for the next twenty minutes. Dean thinks about how he must look right now, ruffled hair and sleepy face still on, and he wonders if Sam's gonna make a stupid comment. But it's only 8, it's too early for jokes. Dean needs coffee, a lot of coffee.

When they eat their breakfast at the same dinner they were the night before, Mindy is there again and smiles happily when she sees them. Dean wonders if her cheeks don't hurt when she goes back home after her shift and she stops smiling. Or perhaps she's just happy, all the time, for whatever reason. Either way, he really doesn't mind because she's pretty and her smile brighten the whole dinner.

While they drink their coffee, Sam reads the file, for maybe the twentieth time, and the way he frowns makes it clear that there's no sudden revelation in there.

"So, what now?"  
Sam closes the file, and takes a sip from his cup, his gaze fixed somewhere above Dean's left shoulder.

"Library", he answers.

"See? That's why you never get laid."

Sam shifts his gaze to look at Dean in the eyes and Dean waits for the retort, the smart-ass comment about Dean's sexuality but nothing comes, Sam just looks at him like he's trying to make up his mind on something, like Dean is a very complicated puzzle with a missing piece.

"I'm guessing you're not coming?"

It's a quiet comment, not at all what Dean expected his brother to say.  
"Give me that."  
It's not really an order, Sam doesn't even move, and Dean reaches across the table to take the file and checks something again. When he finds what he's been looking for, he smiles and puts the file back on the table.  
"I'm gonna go talk to witnesses."

"What witnesses?", asks Sam. "First guy lived alone and died on his couch, the second was running in the parc at 7am where absolutely no one saw him and the last was in the back alley behind a bar. He probably thought he was just gonna throw up. Who do you think s-"

Sam stops and raises his eyebrows, his mouth still gaping open, and he snorts, shaking his head in disbelief.  
"Seriously Dean? You gonna go to a bar when it's not even 10?"

"Dude, I'm offended, I don't go there to drink, I'm going to investigate."

"Oh really? Then why don't you go to the parc first?"

Dean grins, innocence painted all over his face.

"You just said there was no one there when the guy died."

There's a tense silence and Dean can clearly see his brother trying to find something to say, something that will shut Dean up. But he just mumbles "unbelievable" and they finish their breakfast in a silence that's not as sweet as the one the night before. They go separate ways when they leave the dinner, and Dean goes to the bar where the last victim died. Truth be told, he really doesn't plan on drinking. But he sure as hell isn't gonna spend the whole morning watching Sam getting off on free wifi and dusty archives.

The _Nine loop_ is a relatively great place, Dean thinks when he comes in. Dim lights, red leather booths, an old jukebox that's playing The Mamas and the Papas (that's so not okay but there's enough noise to cover the music), and four pool tables. Two guys are playing, and there are maybe twenty other people in the bar. Quite crowded, for a Monday morning, but it's a small town, the local bar is like the HQ for gossips and whispers. Dean walks to the counter and people look at him not so subtly, new guy in town, either he's trouble, either he's trouble. He doesn't mind though, that's not the first time he and Sam end up somewhere they're not very welcome. The bartender doesn't seem to mind though, and gives him his beer without any second glance.

"Hey, uh, can I ask you something?"

The bartender leans above the counter and says:

"Depends. Who are you?"

 _Okay,_ Dean thinks, _here we go._

"I- I'm Doug's cousin."

The bartender immediately widens his eyes, and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.  
"Oh man I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"It's okay, you couldn't have guessed."

"I'm sorry for you cousin. What do you wanna know?"

"I'm just, you know, trying to understand what happened. He, he was a regular?"

The barman just nods, and he seems lost in his own thoughts for a minute.

"Doug was coming here every Friday night, he was a great guy. He and his buddies were hustling pools and having a few drinks. They never caused any troubles, it's – it's terrible what happened to them."

"Them?"

"Well yeah, you know, Doug and the others."

"Uh- sorry, what are you talking about?"

"You didn't know?"

Dean shakes his head, and the barman just hands him another beer.  
"On the house."

"Thanks."  
  
"Doug was always playing with Sean Whittle and Jack -"

"Ribs"

"Oh so you know them."

Dean snorts. He knows them because those are the two other dead guys.  
"Yeah, I think I remember Doug mentioning them."

"Well, I hate to have to tell you this, but they – they passed away too. That whole thing is so messed up, everybody here knew them, it's rough. First Liam, and then the three of them, it's... it's like they were cursed, you know?"  
Right, that part isn't in the file.

"Mh... I- When Liam had his... accident, again?"

"Last year. You know, that was such a mess, made the front page back then."

"Right. Thanks man."

Dean finishes his beer and stands up.  
"Hum, I can't remember, what was Liam's last name again?"

"Willis."

"Right, Willis. Thanks, again."

The bartender just nods and focuses on cleaning his counter, relieved that the conversation is finally over. So there was another guy, how did they miss this?

 Once Dean is out, he calls Sam.

"Hey", answers Sam's voice.  
"Hey. So, you found something Sherlock?"

There's a quick silence and Dean can hear Sam's sigh.

"No, but I'm guessing you did."  
"Well, while you were having multiple nerdgasms between the shelves, I've been talking to the bartender of the _Nine loop_. And our three dead guys knew each other, they hustled pool together every Friday. And, because I'm that good, I can also tell you that they had another friend who died a year ago. »

"What friend?"

"Liam Willis. Look for an accident that must have happened that month last year. Made the front page, according to the bartender."

"Okay, just, hold on."

There's the background noise of fingers typing something freakingly fast on a computer keyboard, and then several clicks as Sam explores the local archives.

"Got it", he says after a minute or two. "Liam Willis, tragic accident, left a wife and two kids. Blabla was working at the local bakery with his wife, bla bla bla aaaaand, uh. »

"What?"

"He was killed by a car when he tried to cross the highway."  
  
"Walking?!"  
  
"Yes."

"That's completely stupid."

"Yeah, well, the article says "on his way home after a night in town", meaning he -"

"Was drunk."

"Yep."

"You think he's the one who killed the other three?"

Sam sighs over the line, and Dean can almost feel him shaking his head.

"Doesn't make any sense, why would he kill his friends?"

"Maybe he was with them the night he died and they fought about something?"

"Dunno. That's kind of light, don't you think?"

Sam sighs, again, before he speaks.

"Let's just go eat something at the dinner okay? We'll figure it out then."

"Is this a date?"

Sam doesn't answer right away, a quiet silence filling the line for a few seconds.

"You wish", is the too-late answer, and then Sam hangs up.

 There was something definitely wrong with Sam lately, Dean thought as he walked towards his car. Always being in each others pockets meant knowing each other so well it was almost unhealthy. Dean knew everything about Sam. He knew his brother's habits, he knew the food he liked, the music he wished he could listen to in the car, the size of his jeans, the shampoo he used, everything. He knew everything, he knew when Sam was sleeping and when Sam was fake-sleeping. He knew the story behind every scar, the meaning of all of the different bitchfaces, everyfuckingthing. And lately, Dean didn't understand Sam.

When Dean was making a joke, or a stupid comment, the unspoken "rule" between the two of them was Sam rolling his eyes or looking disgusted, maybe a snarky remark, but they both knew Sam loved those jokes, because even if they're weren't funny half of the time, they meant they were okay, that life wasn't that bad. Sam was putting his you-do-realize-that-you're-supposed-to-be-older-than-me-right face, but he was also trying to hide his smile, and even if he succeeded all the time, they both knew the grin was there, trapped behind those closed lips. But lately, Sam was very far away from the petulant little brother Dean knew. Sam was quiet, he didn't laugh much more, and was lost in his own thoughts half of the time. When it started, Dean didn't give it too many thoughts. With the kind of life they had, it was normal, healthy, to sometimes get dumbstruck by everything that had happen so far. All the victims, all the friends they lost, all the pain they went through, it could be overwhelming. They were never freaking out, but they sometimes took some time on their own, just processing that history inside History, the great story of their lives. But it went on, and on, and Dean was more and more confused. The worst part was, and as much as he wanted to avoid that thought, he couldn't really deny it, that the problem didn't seem to be somewhere in their past, but right there, right now. More than that, Dean seemed to be the cause of the problem, and that, THAT was a thing that could freak Dean out.

 He picks Sam up at the library and Sam talks about the case all the way to the dinner. He talks about Liam Willis, the new-crowned first victim, and exposes the few theories he had built while waiting for his brother. Dean isn't really listening, he's just glancing at his brother in the passenger seat and looking for anything, the smallest hint that could tell him what's wrong. It's a bit stupid, there isn't a neon sign above Sam's head with shining letters explaining what's the matter. But he can't help it, maybe if he just spots something, the tiniest little thing, he'll be able to understand. But Sam is just like always, talking and sometimes gritting his teeth on his lower lip, frowning when facing a dead end, tapping his fingers in rhythm on his thigh. Regular Sam.

 They eat silently, Sam lost somewhere in his thoughts about the case, Dean lost somewhere in his thoughts about Sam. When the waitress – who isn't Mindy, that day – comes and sets two coffees and a slice of pecan pie on the table, Dean licks his lips and catches Sam watching him. Again.

"Alright, cut the crap, what is it?"

Sam's head snaps up, his eyes meeting Dean's and for a split second, there's a fear in that gaze, a hidden fear that disappears behind a detached expression, very convincing except Dean knows it's a lie. Sam sucks on his tongue, studying Dean for several silent moments, and his brother can see the thoughts skimming behind his eyes .

"Nothing", he says evenly.

"Bullshit."

Sam glares at him from across the booth, his face blank, no emotion in there, just a cold mask hiding whatever truth there is to hide.

"Nothing", he says again.

Dean just blinks, and leans closer, his elbows on the table and his gaze focused on Sam's face.

"Sam."

Sam's face is unreadable and it's driving Dean insane, because he knows there's something that's eating his brother from the inside, and he wants to know because whatever it is, he's gonna kick its ass and everything will go back to normal. That's what big brothers do.

"Dean.", Sam says on the same tone Dean just used, and there's a smirk twisting the corner of his lips. _You little shit_.

"Alright" Dean slams back against his booth. "But I'll find out you know".

Sam just grins, but the way his breathing slows down betrays him. He's relieved Dean's not pushing, and Dean sees it.

"Stop being paranoid."

Dean takes his spoon and start digging in his pie. He tastes the first bite, and damn, this is good.

"Yeah?", he says, and then gestures towards Sam's hands with his spoon. "Then maybe you can relax, if everything's so fine."  
On the table, Sam's fists are closed so tight his knuckles are white.

~

The bakery is... well it isn't a bakery anymore. Unless the croissants are hidden under tons of dusty books. The bookstore is empty except for the manager, a woman in her mid-forties who looks up when the doorbell echoes in the quiet shop. Dean takes in the shelves filled with used books, an organized chaos of novels and comics. The place looks like a tornado just walked in and out but a quick look at the woman behind the counter tells him that if he needs a particular book, she'll know exactly where it is. Sam walks towards her and smiles, the smile he sells to everyone and that says It's-okay-you-can-trust-me. And it works, almost every single time. The woman nods at them, smiles too, and asks quietly, as if someone was sleeping in the room and she didn't want to wake him up.

"How can I help you?"

"Madam Willis?", Sam asks with his most smoothing voice, leaning against the counter, and _seriously Sam?_ , he can't speak two words to a cute waitress but flirts with a woman twice his age who's supposed to be a widow.

She shakes her head.

"Who?", she asks, confusion slowly making its way on her face. It's not usually what people ask. People ask for that edition of _To kill a Mockingbird_ , "with the greenish-blueish-redish cover and the thing drawn on it". People usually say: "I don't remember who wrote it, and I don't remember the title, but it's a love story". They ask for "something funny". People always ask this, they always ask for impossible things, and Lucy, 43, bookstore keeper, is really proud to say that she's always able to find the one book all her customers need.

"Hem, sorry", says Sam, still smiling, "I thought you were Madam Willis, she owned that store before, when it was a bakery."

Oh, right. The bakery. Lucy shakes her head, again.

"No, I'm Lucy Taylor. I bought this place about a year ago."

"Oh, right. This is a misunderstanding then, please excuse us. Do you have any idea where we might find Mrs Willis?"

Lucy nods.

~

 The cemetery is quiet and peaceful, the lack of trees preventing any birds from singing close to the aligned graves. It's a little graveyard, with only one gravel driveway that meander between the funeral monuments. It doesn't take them long to find Mrs Willis. The tombstone just says "Mary Willis, 1965-2011". No flowers, no "in loving memory of", nothing. Dean sighs and rubs his eyes. This is a dead end.

"So much for talking to his wife uh?", he says, breaking the silence.

Sam doesn't answer right away.

"Dean, where did you get that fucking file?"

"What?"

"The file", Sam says quietly, "there was nothing about the victims being friends, nothing about Liam Willis, and nothing about his wife. So where the hell did you get it, that thing is useless!"

Dean just shrugs, there is nothing to argue about this, the file is indeed useless.

"Police report", he says, "but we're in Nowhere, Nebraska, and nobody gives a fuck about this because strange deaths mean paperwork and strangers, and interviews and investigations."

 They go back to the motel and Sam goes straight for his laptop. It's not that Dean doesn't want to help, but there's no a lot he can do at the moment, so he just sits on his bed and flips on the tv. He goes through every channels twice before settling for an old rerun of Crocodile Dundee. This is really, really lame. From his bed, he's facing Sam's back, the broad expense of his shoulders, his hair curling just behind his neck. Sam's back is attractive. _What the fuck_ , thinks Dean. He turns his gaze to the tv again and tries to understand how such a dumbass character managed to stay alive for three fucking movies. The room is quiet except for the tv and Sam's fingers tapping on the keyboard. It's a comfortable silence, and Dean is about to drift off when Sam turns around suddenly to face him, and there's something in the twist of Sam's body, the slash of his down turned mouth and the narrowed eyes, that just hits Dean.

"We should burn his remains.", he says, and Dean's not sure he got that right.

"What?"

Sam's brow furrows even more, but there's not a hint of doubt in his voice when he speaks again.  
"Liam Willis. We should burn his bones."

That's not Sam-like. Sam wants to be sure, Sam checks the facts ten thousand times before he makes up his mind on something.

"We don't know squat about Liam Willis, why would we torch his bones?"

"Well who else can it be?!"

The sudden flash of anger is unexpected, and Dean switches off the tv. Back to square one, there's something off about Sam and apparently, it's not gonna go away. Dean stands up and take the second chair and sits just next to Sam. His brother is looking at him with wide eyes and there's a mix of confusion and panic in his eyes as he follows Dean movements.

"Alright, spill it out now Sam, because it's not funny anymore."

 Sam swallows hard, squirming in his chair, and Dean thinks for a moment that his brother's just gonna stand up and leave the room.

"What are you talking about?", is a quiet answer and the tone of Sam's voice says how much Sam knows what Dean's talking about, and it pissses Dean off.

"Sam, I'm not kidding, fucking talk to me right now."

 He's angry, because he's not gonna hold Sam's hands and whisper soothing words until Sam feels comfortable enough to just speak. Since when Sam doesn't speak anyway? He's always pushing Dean to talk, talk about his time in Hell, talk about Cas from whom he hasn't heard a word in months, talk about why he didn't take dessert in that dinner one Friday in 1996. Sam always wants Dean to talk, because he wants to help him, he wants to be a great brother, he wants to relieve Dean from the invisible but heavy weight of guilt on his shoulders. And yeah, Dean gets it, Sam does this for him. And eventually, when he pushes long enough, Dean breaks, just a little, and he speaks. He talks and he has to admit that it feels good to just say out loud all those things he can never speak about because people would lock him in an asylum for the next thirty years. Dean is thankful for that. It's a painful moment, because to speak means to open up, to talk about how it felt like when he watched Sam die, when he tortured souls. It hurts, but once it's done, the knot in his chest isn't as tight as it was before. But Dean also sees what Sam does. Sam never speaks like that. Never. He's there for Dean, but he never opens up the way Dean does once he's fed up. Sam never cries, Sam never speaks about what he feels. Sam always says he's good, even when he's not, and yeah, if he's honest, Dean knows he's not really pushing Sam, and maybe if he was insisting a little more, Sam would eventually talk, but the truth is that Sam never talks about what he feels, and right now, it's getting in the way of that fucking case, and it's getting on Dean's nerves.

Sam shrugs and shakes his head, a frantic and kind of desperate attempt for Dean to just drop it, forget it, but _no, not this time Sam._

"You're not moving until you say to me what's wrong with you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, don't hate me for that chapter ;)

Sam still shakes his head, and it's more "what the hell have I done?" than "I'm not gonna tell you". He squirms in his chair and Dean considers the possibility of punching him because this is taking too damn long, but Sam keeps opening his mouth to say something and then closes it again as if what is was about to say was the stupidest thing ever. When he starts speaking, it's a relief but it's not answering Dean's question.

"Look, can we just go burn those bones and get the hell out of this town?"

Sam looks hopeful, and Dean understands that Sam really want him to just drop it. He's pleading him to just let go, and he's doing it, the puppy eyes thing, the one that makes him look like he's five all of a sudden. Dean mentally curses Sam, because they both know it's gonna work, and Dean doesn't want to let this go, he just want to understand what the hell is wrong with Sam, but his brother seems so desperate to change the subject that he knows before he makes up his mind that he's gonna leave it. And it's really unfair, really really unfair, but Sam visibly relaxes when Dean speaks.

"Tell me again why we should burn somebody's bones because he might have eventually become a ghost but we've got zero proof to support that?"

Sam breathes as if he had been underwater for the last twenty minutes, and he seems so relieved that Dean wonders what is so terrible that it makes Sam act like this.

"Just – It can't be anyone else."

Dean raises his eyebrows, shaking his head, waiting for something more but nothing comes.

"You kidding right?"

When Sam just shrugs, Dean almost laughs because I'm dreaming, this is definitely not happening.

"Are you out of your mind? Why not burn the whole cemetery while you're at it?! Just to be sure."

The fact that Sam seems to consider that option for a split second makes Dean raise his hands, a gesture of exasperation that he doesn't really mean, because yes, this is insane, and he feels like the worst hunter on the planet because they're unprepared, they don't know what they're facing and what they did so far is a joke of an investigation but what else are they supposed to do?! This is so messed up he feels the need to laugh again. This is probably the most chaotic hunt they ever did. And it's only been a day.

~

It's midnight when they enter the cemetery with two shovels and a duffel bag. It's three past midnight when they realize they have no idea if Liam Willis has actually been buried. This is gonna end bloody. Dean feels anger boiling inside of him, they've never been so reckless, so unprepared. They're walking to Willis's wife grave, and start searching for the husband's. Thank god they find it because if the guy had been cremated, Dean thinks he'd have just dig up and burn a corpse anyway. This is so stupid. So, fucking, stupid. Whatever's got into Sam is messing with Dean's head and he can't think properly. He's so fed up he doesn't even argue when Sam tells him to start digging. If he can't think right, better not think at all. He's digging for a corpse, that's something he knows how to do, and once he's four feet deep, his shoulders are aching but it's a good kind of pain, something that helps him to keep his mind away from Sam. When his shovel hit the coffin, he even dares whispering "jackpot" to Sam, who's watching him from above, shotgun loaded with rock salt in his hand in case Liam decides he's not quite happy with people torching his remains.

Dean opens the coffin and gets out of the grave, while Sam pours salt over the bones. Dean takes the gasoline out of the bag the brought with them and once he's poured some in the grave, he takes matches out of the bag, lights a handful of them, with a sigh because Liam Willis doesn't show up – which means that there are a good 90% chances that he's not the one they're after - he throws them in the grave.

They stay by the grave for as long as it takes for the fire to consume the bones. They're exhausted, because as much as it has sucked, it was still a long day, and they're muddy and tired in a cemetery, watching as the last remnant of the fire dies. Bye, Liam Willis, who was never really there. It's Sam's turn to work. He throws big shovelful of dirt back in the hole, and it's easier than digging in the first place, but Dean doesn't say anything. He just waits for his brother to be done and that's when he sees her. She's in his space so fast he hasn't got the time to take the shotgun. She's grinning, her face a bloody mess where Dean can see deep and nasty burns, and before she throws him away, he's got enough time to think that she probably died in a fire, because her body is just like her face. She's wearing a dress that must have been blue once, black whole in the fabric and her Dean sees her rib cage underneath the dress, the bones out in the open, without any skin to cover them. He yells "Sam" and she throws him away in a swift motion. He lands on the grass a few feet away, but his right arm hits a tombstone in the process. Once he's on the ground, sits back, a nauseous feeling stuck in his throat, and he turns his head to see the awkward angle of his shoulder. He almost giggles, but then the pain hits him, and it's not funny at all anymore. It takes his breath away, and leaves him panting on the ground, unable to do a damn thing but hope Sam heard him. He lifts his gaze a little to see Sam swinging his shovel through the ghost of most likely Mary Willis. She disappears into thin air when the iron-head of the shovel hits her, and Sam yells something, probably Dean's name, before he runs towards him.

He drops on his knees once he's next to Dean and tries to talk but Dean doesn't hear a damn thing. There's something wrong with his shoulder, he can feel it, but it's a distant pain now, and Sam is here anyway, so everything's gonna be okay. He smiles lazily and Sam's eyes widen, concern leaving his face and panic taking its place. Dean wants to say that he's actually quite okay but the words are stuck somewhere in his throat. Sam lifts him from the ground and puts his arm around Dean's waist, leading him as fast as he can to the cemetery's exit.

"But ghosty ghosty still over there!"

That's what Dean manages to mumble before he passes out.

When he wakes up, they're back to their motel room and his shoulder hurts like hell. He looks at it and it seems to be back to its rightful place. Sam must have put it back in place when he was out. Good thinking. That's when he registers Sam. His brother is sitting on the edge of his bed, gnawing at his lips, his gaze fixed on his knees. He's shaking his head and looks so tensed it could be comical if Dean felt like making jokes about removing the stick that's stuck in Sam's ass.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam's head snaps up when he hears his brother's voice, and he seems relieved for a minute, before he's tensed again, a pained look on his face.

"So, she got me pretty good", says Dean as a new wave of pain hits him.

Sam nods, and gestures towards Dean's head.

"Yeah, well, you didn't land quite well."

Dean lifts his left arm, and touches his forehead, surprised when he feel stitches running on his skin. Apparently, he didn't just hurt his shoulder. That explains why he feels so dizzy. This isn't the first time he's hurt on a hunt, and he's already dislocated his shoulder a couple of times before tonight, so his sudden weakness has probably more to do with how hard he hit his head.

"Fuck."

Sam chuckles.

"It kind of improves your face."

Dean snorts, his eyes fixed on Sam, who's grinning a little, but there's still something off about him.

"Sammy?"

Sam swallows and buries his head between his hands, his whole body shaking and before Dean knows it, Sam's next to him, his face just inches from Dean's, and he looks a little crazy, eyes wide open and nostrils flaring. When he's speaking, he sounds angry even if Dean knows this isn't because of him.

"I thought I lost you when you passed out. I saw your shoulder and your head, and I knew you were gonna be okay, that it was nothing, but then you- you looked at me and he didn't recognize me and then you passed out and I- It didn't last long but for just a few seconds, I thought you were dead and-"

Sam's breathing heavily, struggling to find the right words but apparently not really aware of what he's saying. He's panting, and he almost seems feverish, something in the way he trembles reminding Dean of a ten years old Sam who caught the flu and was stuck in bed, whining alternatively about being bored and about to die. The memory would make Dean smiles if Sam wasn't gripping his wrists in his hands so tight it's gonna be painful in a few seconds. But Sam doesn't seem to even realize it and he continues, speaking in sentences he never finishes, like he wants to say so much but hasn't got enough time.

"I can't do this anymore, I can't. You just, I can't keep hunting like everything's okay when it's not and- If you die without knowing I'll just- And it's selfish I know, I don't want to do this- It's fucked up and I'm sorry, oh god I'm so sorry Dean, please, I'm sorry."

For a split second, Dean thinks Sam is gonna kiss him and something flips inside his stomach because it's insane but then Sam's gripping Dean's shirt and buries his head in the crook of Dean's neck, so close Dean can feel his brother's lips on his skin while he's speaking.

"I'm so sorry Dean."

Dean doesn't know what to do, he doesn't even know what's happening. He doesn't understand what Sam is saying, not sure he wants to, so he does what he's always done when Sam needed it. He ignores the pain in his shoulder and slides his arms around Sam's shoulders, holding his brother in a tight embrace and whispering soothing words in his brother's hair.

"It's okay Sam, I'm okay, we're okay"

He stops before he starts saying how everything is "okay", and just rubs his palm up and down Sam's back. When his brother stops shaking, he moves his arms away and Sam lifts his head to look at him, more confident than he's ever been in those last few weeks.

"I love you."

It's quiet and almost a whisper but Dean hears it as if Sam had yelled right in his ear. He's not comfortable with big flowery love declaration, and never feels the need to say out loud things people already know. Sam knows Dean loves him. He knows it because Dean sometimes let him pick some of his fries, because Dean always throws rock to be sure he'll loose when they're playing rock paper scissors to decide who's gonna have his ass kicked first by the monster hiding in the hole they're standing above, he knows it because Dean grabs handful of his ass when people mistake them for a gay couple, he knows it because everything Dean does is connected to his brother. Everything he does is for Sam, because of Sam, thanks to Sam, despite Sam's opinion. Sam is the one true thing in his life, and of course he loves him, it's quite obvious.

What he's thinking must be showing on his face because Sam shakes his head, and speaks again, his voice still very quiet.

"No, not like that, you don't understand. I love you."

And Dean still doesn't get it because Sam just said the exact same thing so where's the damn difference but eventually, when he looks at his brother, all the pieces clicks in, and he understands. Oh.

_Oh._

Dean jerks away and gets out of his bed in a second, the horror of this whole situation settling in, and Sam hasn't move after Dean shoved him, he's still on his knees next to Dean's bed, panic on his face but also something that looks a lot like relief. The pain in Dean's shoulder is still there but bearable, and he just takes steps back until his back hit the wall. The whole time, his eyes are fixed on his brother, waiting for Sam to tell him he misunderstood him, waiting for him to tell him it's just a fucking joke, except Sam doesn't say anything, he just stands up and looks at Dean, waiting for him to say something, anything. But Dean can't, because "I love you". I fucking love you. He wants to scream, he wants to laugh, he wants to punch the wall. He wants to go back to the cemetery and finish the mess that is this case, he wants to drive as far away from this town as possible. He wants to do anything but speak. He starts shaking his head frantically and walk from one side of the room to the other. He feels sick, like he hasn't been able to say "that's the last one" and has drink another couple of shots. He feels like all his organs fell in his feet, he feels empty and only able to walk. His brain is dead, his heart his dead, he doesn't understand how he manages to breathe because his lungs are dead. He can only walk, from one side, to the other, while Sam watches him, the tension back in the line of his shoulders.

"Dean, please, I'm sorry, just, talk to me please."

Dean's pacing like a lion in a cage in the small room, never looking at Sam, his mouth a thin line and his hands two fists on his sides. He needs to get out of here, he needs to flee from what Sam said but the problem is that it's carved in his dead brain now, and he can move to South Africa if he wants to but it's not gonna change anything. And it's fucking unfair.

"Dean, please."  
  
"Shut up Sam, seriously, shut the hell up.", and Dean is surprised to hear his own voice.

"Talk to me man, say something, anything."

Dean's head snaps up, fury in his eyes, and for a stupid second, Sam is scared.

"Why do you always want to talk? What do you want me to say? That it's okay, that we can hold hands and walk away in the sunset?! What am I supposed to say? Do you realize what you're even saying? Do you realize how fucked up that it?"

Sam winces, but Dean doesn't stop.

"What is there to talk about? My brother just basically told me he's in love with me, MY BROTHER, the only family I've got, the only person I care about in this fucked up world, and what can I possibly say? You know what? Screw you Sam."

"What?!"

"You wanted me to talk, well that's it, that's what I'm saying: screw you very much. I didn't need that." And once Dean realizes that he can speak, he lets his tongue and his lips form the only words he's able to say right now. "What's the fucking point? What do you want me to say? That my first thought when I wake up is "Sam", that you're all I fucking think about all day long? That the only time I feel fear like normal people do is when I think of what could happen to you? That I'm not scared of dying but you, YOU, you're all I have? All I care about? That's what you want me to say? That I fear for your safety before all others?"

Dean's still talking when Sam crosses the distance between them, cups Dean's face in his hands and puts his lips on his.

It should be wrong, very, very wrong, it should feel wrong. But Dean's brain shuts down, leaving him drowning in want, a need so powerful it's incredible he never felt empty before. The kiss is just a hard press of lips against lips, the slightly scratchy stubble of their faces rubbing together as their chins touch. Sam leans against him, his arms sliding around Dean's shoulders, pulling him in. Sam's everywhere and it's an intoxicating feeling. His teeth nip on Dean's lips, and his tongue slides in Dean's mouth. It's better than everything, it's better than the road, it's better than his guns, it's better than any trip on LSD, ecstasy, acid, heroin, crack, dope. It's better than sex, it's better than pie, better than peanut-butter sandwiches. It's better than sharks week, better than all of Chuck Norris movies, better than Anna Nicole Smith in their dad's magazine, better than Pamela Anderson's lips or Cindy Crawford's mole. It's better than Black Sabbath, Motorhead, better than Neil Armtrong's small step on the moon. It's better than life. And that's this specific point, this sudden realization, the strong knowledge that he'd give up his freedom for this, that he'd give away a thousand days just for his brother's lips on his for a few seconds, that's the moment when he jerks away and always trips over his own feet.

Sam reaches out for him but Dean raises him arm to stop him.

"Don't fucking touch me", he says.

And without another word, he takes his jackets, snaps the key from the table and storms out of the room. Sam is too stuned to come after him, at least that's what Dean thinks when he sits behind his car's wheel and turns the engine on.


	4. Chapter 4

It's been three weeks since Sam kissed Dean and Dean left him. He's hunting on his own, sleeping mostly in his car because he doesn't want to see or talk to anybody, so he's running a little low on cash. He saves what he has to fill his gas tank and to eat. And drink. He doesn't want to think about Sam and it's like trying to avoid breathing except when necessary. The only way to stop thinking, about that kiss, about that night, about everything, is to drink until he passes out in the back of his car. When he wakes up, his neck is pulled at an awkward angle, the seat belt printed on his face, and his back is killing him. There's a sour taste in his mouth and he feels like shit. Every time, it takes him a minute to register where he is, and why he is in the damn car. He hasn't seen a motel bed in weeks and he'd even go for the crappiest one if he could afford to. This isn't the worst part.

 He's got no idea what day it is, forgot the month, he forgot the date. But he didn't forget how long it's been. Everytime he sees the sun going down, he adds another day. _Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty four._ He really doesn't want to but he can't help it. It's automatic. He can be eating, hunting, sleeping, he always adds another day when the sun comes down. It's another calendar, one where each day is a new burst of pain. It's unfair, really unfair, and Dean is mad. He's mad at Sam because his brother couldn't keep his mouth shut. He's really pissed because Sam said those words, because he put his lips on his, because he acted as if it was something they could figure out. Dean would give anything to have the memory taken away. He would like to call Cas, he would like to ask him to make him forget, if that's even possible. He wants to forget, and he can't, and that's the most frustrating thing. Deep down, he also knows that he pushed Sam, pushed him until he finally told him what was bothering him, but this? This is so fucked up. He would have taken that kind of secret to the grave if it had been his. But no, Sam fucking spoke.

 The first week, he didn't go far. His mind was clouded, he could still taste Sam on his lips, no matter how many burgers, no matter how many shots of Tequila, no matter how many times he brushed his teeth in bars bathrooms. The feeling of Sam's tongue just wouldn't go away. It was there, everytime he licked his lips, and behind his closed eyelids, he could only see pleading hazel eyes. More than once, he found himself shaking, pulling the car over just because suddenly, he was hyper-aware of everything. His palms sweating around the wheel, the itch behind his neck he wanted to scratch, the heat inside the car. He couldn't breathe, he needed to breathe. The knot in his stomach was twisting his guts, and his heart was beating faster and faster, to the point where he wouldn't have been surprised to see it coming out of his chest, Alien-style, broken ribs and skin torn to shreds. He couldn't think about anything, so he just took off, with no idea where to. When there was some space in his mind for something that wasn't Sam, he thought about the case, the mess, and how they'd been wrong from the beginning. He spent the night in the car, on the parking lot behind the Nine loop. He didn't even went inside, unable to imagine what he was gonna do if Sam decided to show up. Probably punch him again. That was everything Dean was able to do at the moment. So he hid in his car, and laughed at himself because he was Dean Winchester, and he was hiding in his car. He laughed for a while, an ugly laugh filling the car, until he couldn't remember what was so funny in the first place. He didn't sleep, he just waited. Sam had tried to call him, his name lighting the small screen of Dean's phone, and Dean had open his door, gotten out of the car, carefully put the phone on the ground and then smashed it with his foot, before sitting back in the car and closing the door. He had other phones and he knew Sam was probably going to try those numbers as well, so he turned them off, all of them.

 When the morning came, he didn't know if he had stayed in the car for one hour or twelve. He hadn't move, his hands holding the wheel, keys in the ignition but engine quiet. Someone – a waitress, unless she was wearing a Nine-loop shirt just for the beauty of it – opened the bar back door to throw empty bottles in the trash can and she saw him. She didn't say anything and didn't come closer, but the way she had furrowed her brows had been a clear indication of what she had thought about the scene she had just witnessed. That's when Dean took off. He wanted to get the hell out of this town, but the job wasn't finished. Sam was probably thinking the same thing but Dean didn't want to back away. So he went to a cyber-cafe, knowing that if he went to the library, he'd see Sam.

 He spent two hours on the computer, looking at archives and reading old newspapers that had been scanned. He wondered how he and Sam had been so obnoxious to all this, because when he was done, everything was really clear. Willis died on his way back home after a night drinking with his buddies at the Nine Loop. He tried to cross the highway and got hit by a car. Tragic, and stupid. He was buried in the small town cemetery and things went downhill from there. His wife, Mary, started to drink, and never forgave Liam's friends for letting him walk home on his own when he was clearly trashed. One month after her husband's death, Mary came home after work, even if lately, people didn't come to the bakery anymore. She was drunk half of the time, and even her most faithful customers were avoiding the bakery, feeling sad for the woman but not enough to do anything about it. She put some leftovers in her oven and fell on her couch, a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. She drank too much, passed out in her living room, and didn't hear the fire alarm when her oven caught on fire. When the fire service finally arrived, Mary was long gone.

 It took her a year. A year wondering alone, probably trying to figure out what happened to her. And the anger she felt towards her dead husband's friends when she was still alive turned to a stifling rage. She found them, and one by one, she showed them how it felt to be so drunk you wanted to throw up everything you had in you. She showed them, literally. Dean and Sam could have figured this out in two hours if they had put their minds to it. Instead, the hunt had been a disaster and it wasn't even over. When he had left the cyber-cafe, Dean wondered if he was going to wait until the evening shadows fell, but he also knew that Sam was on the case too. So he didn't wait, because he didn't want to meet his brother in the middle of the night, right in the cemetery where everything started. Or ended. Pick one. Digging up a corpse in the middle of the afternoon without looking suspicious was a challenge, but the cemetery was empty, and when Dean started digging, he found himself being angrier with each shovelful of dirt. He didn't waste time. As soon as his shovel hit the coffin, he opened it, poured salt and gasoline on Mary's remains, and dropped his lighter in the hole. Mary didn't even showed up.

 After that, he left, and here he is.

He really, really wants a shower, and considers renting a room, just this once, just for tonight, but the thought of having a room on his own frightens him. He's pissed at Sam, but he also knows that he won't be able to sleep, without hearing Sam's breathing in the next bed. He can't sleep if he doesn't hear Sam in the room. Being in the car is better. It feels natural to sleep here. He's done it before without Sam. And those aren't bad memories. Motel rooms without Sam? It only means trouble. It means that Sam left for Stanford and doesn't plan on coming back, it means that Sam left with a demon bitch who's got him hooked up on demon blood. It means that Sam is pissed and can't stand being in the same room as his brother. It means something's wrong. Empty motel rooms scare Dean, and really, he would have think he'd be scared of big bag monsters, scared of dying, scared of too much blood coming out of his body. But no, Dean is scared of empty motel rooms. So he's gonna stay in the car.

 He drives, doesn't know where to, doesn't care. He's trying to get rid of things that are stuck in his mind. He thinks that maybe, maybe the next mile it'll be better. Maybe the next town he'll forget. Maybe the next day he'll understand that it was just a big joke. Maybe Sam will be there, and laugh, laugh because his brother is a jerk. And maybe things will go back to normal. That's a lot of maybes. He thinks he sees Sam on the road, spots an old gray Chevroley, with flat tires, and a guy who seems freakingly tall behind the wheel. He almost drives into a ditch when he sees him. What are the odds? Strong, apparently. America isn't big enough. He doesn't know if it's really Sam, but doesn't take the chance, and drives faster, trying to put some distance between the Chevrolet and his baby. One night, he thinks about crossing the border and going to Mexico, and then laughs hysterically for ten minutes. « That was a good one, right? » he asks the empty seat next to him.

 The third week, he misses Sam more than he hates him. He wants to hear his brother complaining about the way he eats, he wants to smell Sam's girly shampoo after his brother has taken a shower. He wants to see Sam, just see him. He misses him so much it hurts more than Sam's lips on his. It hurts more than anything, and he understands. He lost his mother. He lost his dad. He lost countless friends, innocents and not so innocent ones. He lost everyone but Sam, and he's actually driving away from the one and only family he has left. He's driving away from home.

He waits two more days before he switches on one of the cell phones he kept and sends a text to Sam's number.

  _Where are you?_

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter, I'm sorry it took me so long to write it! I hope you'll like it :)

Sam doesn't answer right away. It takes him two days before he calls Dean. Meanwhile, Dean thinks he's gonna loose his mind. There's a litany of "what if"'s in his head. _What if something happened to him? What if he dumped his phone? What if I can't find him? What if I'm never gonna see him again? What if he doesn't want to see me?_ It's torture, plain and simple. Knowing that Sam is somewhere, out there, on his own, and that perhaps he doesn't want to see his brother. Dean still drives, because it forces him to concentrate on something that is not Sam, but every time he stops to grab something to eat, or to loosen his legs, he checks his phone and he feels a little more hopeless every time the screen shows him nothing but a crappy background picture of the Impala.

But eventually, the phone rings. Dean is driving and doesn't care if it's safe or not, he just parks on the side of the road and takes the phone out of his jacket pocket. For a split second, he's afraid it's not gonna be Sam. He fears that it's someone else, a hunter, someone his dad met years ago and who still got that number, or someone who dialed the wrong number. His heart beats faster when he sees the screen and Sam's name on it. He's so afraid his brother is gonna change his mind and hung up before Dean answers that he almost yells when he picks up.

"Hello?"

"Hi"

Sam's voice. Sam's voice. It's so good Dean wants to laugh. He feels better than he has for the last weeks and it took only one word from Sam's mouth.

"Sam?"

"Well yeah, who did you expect?"

For a minute, Dean wants to crack a joke about Jessica Alba, but it's too soon, he's only been on the phone for less than a minute and it's been almost a month since the last time he heard his brother's voice. He doesn't want to piss him off, he just wants him to talk, again, and again, until his throat hurts and until there's nothing left to say. But even more than that, he wants to see him.

"Where are you?", he asks, and he fears Sam's answer, because he could be in the next town as well as five states away, and he's not sure he's in shape to drive for days before seeing his brother again.

"Lawrence"

Lawrence? What the hell is he doing in Lawrence? They never go to Lawrence. Dean hates going to Lawrence, it's just full of memories, a town that is just a testimony of what could have been and what never was. On the other end, Dean is 6 hours away from Lawrence, and it could have been a lot worse than 6 hours. Knowing that his brother is only six hours away from him is a relief, and Dean almost wants to hang up right there to turn the car around and drive to Lawrence as fast as he can. But he still wants to hear Sam, so instead, he just asks.

"Why?"

Sam sighs over the line before he answers, and his tone is so even that it sends shivers, not the good kind, down Dean's spine.

"I figured that if you ditched all the phones and wanted to find me again, that's where you'd go".

"Why not Bobby's?"

There's a sudden silence, and Dean doesn't know why he said the wrong thing, but also doesn't want to ask.

"I didn't want to lie."

"Lie? About what?"

"You really want to do this over the phone?"

Sam's voice is more tensed now, Dean can hear it. And he wants to say _No, I don't want to do this over the phone, I don't want to do this at all, I just want things to go back to normal,_ but he doesn't say it, because he knows there's no way they'll just casually get back on the road together, without speaking about that night, without even mentioning what happened between them. Sam won't let Dean have this, and somewhere, deep down, Dean knows it's better this way. He may be a professional of denial, but he knows he can't get over this. Can't and won't.

"Sorry", is what he says and he hears Sam's sigh.

"You coming?", Sam asks, and Dean thinks it might be in the top 5 of the stupidest questions ever. Right now though, it's probably best if he doesn't say so.

"Yeah, I-um, yeah, I can be there in the evening."  
Sam says "Good" and he hangs up, and Dean feels his heart breaking a little because this conversation wasn't nearly long enough. At least it's a beginning. Sam didn't say where he was staying but it's one of those things they don't need to talk about. When they happen to be separated during a hunt, they always meet up in the first motel listed in the phone book.

Dean doesn't waste any more time, he drives, except it's different from the last weeks because now he knows where he's going and he wants to be there right now. He doesn't care about the speed limit. He figures he can make it in four hours if he's fast enough, and four hours still feels like an eternity. He wants to see Sam so badly he doesn't think at first about what's it's gonna be like. And then it hits him like a bullet.

Sam kissed him. And it was so good Dean felt like melting and freezing at the same time. It was like everything was suddenly brighter, suddenly at its right place. But it was still Sam, and four hours isn't long enough to list all the reasons why this is so wrong. He tries to think about what he could say, tries to figure out if he has to apologize for leaving that night, tries to understand if there's anything that's his fault about that. And honestly, maybe Sam is the one who initiated this, but Dean feels guilty nonetheless. It's a crazy situation, and he feels stupidly nervous. The closer he's from Lawrence, the more scared he is and it's the second time since this all mess that Dean is afraid to see his brother and this is wrong on so many levels he doesn't even know where to start.

_Do I have to look still pissed? Or do I apologize? For what? I didn't do anything! Fuck this is gonna be so weird, I can't do this. Jesus fuck what do I do?! Okay so just, just, just clap him on the shoulder. Oh for fuck's sake this is ridiculous._

Dean curses when he sees the road sign telling him he's now entering Lawrence. He recognizes the city a little bit, more because he came back with Sam years ago than because he lived here as a kid. He was too young to remember much more than his bedroom in his old house. It feels strange to be here, and Dean thinks maybe Sam picked Lawrence specifically for this. Maybe it's his way of saying, "this is home, I'm your home", maybe this is his way of saying they should start again. Dean doesn't know, doesn't think about it for too long. He drives to the nearest bar and sees it's not even 6 in the evening. He did it in 4 hours, just like he thought.

The place is packed, already, and Dean thinks it must be Friday, he's not sure. What's the point on keeping up with the date when you've got nothing to look forward to? He sits at the counter and asks for a beer. Maybe if he's slightly buzzed then it will be easier. He's nervous, his palms are sweaty around his beer bottle and there's a little voice in his head telling him to just run away. The thing is, he wants two things, and those things are messing with him because they're opposite to each other. He wants to see Sam, because Sam is his brother, because he's his only family, because he's not really him if Sam isn't there. So there's that. And he also wants to be really really far away because what happened between them the last time they were in a room together is making him sick. This isn't something you can just push aside, deliberately ignore and move on. It's not. And there isn't any happy ending with this, Dean isn't stupid enough to believe there is one. So he wants to be there, and he also wants to be anywhere but here. He's pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger, seriously considering just leaving and driving far away from here when he feels a hand dropping on his shoulders and he knows who it is before he hears the voice.

"You're early."

_Fuck._

Seeing Sam again after three weeks of existential crisis feels like being punched. He sees his brother's hazel eyes with the dark hollows surrounding them and he can say Sam doesn't sleep really well. His shoulders are a bit hunched, like Sam is trying to look smaller than the giant he really is, and he's not smiling. Looking at Sam's lips is another uppercut. Dean sees that mouth, the thin line of those lips, and he'd like Sam to smile this giga watt smile Dean knows is hidden somewhere. Dimples, where are the goddamn dimples? It feels good and also awful to see Sam, here, just like that. Dean doesn't know if he's gonna be sick or if he's gonna hug Sam and never let him go again.

He just goes for casual, and just hopes Sam won't notice how his fingers are slightly shaking.

"Yeah, well. I just wanted a drink before... just-um, before."

Okay so let's forget casual. It's awkward, downright awkward and Sam looks at him and doesn't say anything, studying Dean's face like there's something he's trying to see, like all the answers are here. Dean squirms in his seat, uncomfortable as Hell, and Sam seems to realize he's staring. He shakes his head and sits next to Dean, and asks the bartender for a beer. They don't talk for several minutes, and Sam's beer is half empty when Dean opens his mouth.

"So. What were you doing in Lawrence anyway?"

Sam just shrugs, never meeting his brother's gaze.

"Figured you might come here."

"You look like crap", Dean says before he can stop himself. But it's true, it's the first thing he noticed when he saw Sam and it's bugging him since.

Sam snorts and finally looks at Dean.

"Right back at you."

Touché. Dean hasn't seen his reflection in anything but the Impala's rear view mirror for the last weeks but he knows he looks like shit. He feels like shit. He smiles, even though there isn't anything funny about this whole situation, and goes back to his beer, finishing it in one gulp. They stay silent for another couple of minutes before Sam sighs and turns in his seat so he's facing Dean.

"Can we- can we just go back to the motel?"

Dean knows what Sam really means. He knows that Sam means let's talk, we need to talk. And he really doesn't want to but it hurts to see how weird things are between them and it doesn't feel right. So he nods and doesn't need to turn his head to know that Sam is following him when he leaves the bar.

"Please tell me you didn't steal any of those cars?", Dean asks as he takes in the crappy old cars in the parking lot, all of them rusty and looking like they're about to die. Sam cracks a smile, a genuine smile, and lifts his arm to point at one car but Dean shakes his head and closes his eyes.

"Don't! Just – don't. I'm gonna pretend you came here on foot."

Sam is still smiling when they both climb in the Impala and Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

They don't talk in the car, Sam absently rubbing his palm on the leather seat, like he can't believe he's sitting here again, and Dean feels almost bad for leaving with the car. They park in front of the Abbey Motel, and yes, this is definitely the first motel in the phone book. Sam gets out first and Dean follows him until they get in the room. "Wrong" is the first thing that comes to Dean's mind when he sees the one single bed. The room looks a bit empty, Sam's duffel bag on the small wooden table, not even openned, and there is a little pile of pizza boxes and empty beer cans on the dusty floor. Well at least Sam didn't let himself starve. There's only one chair, so Dean sits there while Sam goes to the bathroom. There's only one window, and since neither of them bothered to switch the light on, the room is pretty dark. Perhaps it'll make this easier if they do this in the dark. Perhaps.

When Sam comes back, he sits on his bed, and Dean fears it's gonna be just like that. Silence, both of them looking at anywhere but the other, both of them waiting for some kind of miracle that could set things right. But Sam speaks, doesn't let the silence settle, and Dean is grateful, even if he knows this conversation is gonna suck.

"So", Sam says quietly, fidgeting with his shirt, "I figure that I- um". He sighs and rubs his eyes with his hands, a sudden laugh echoing in the room. "Jesus, this is fucked up.". When Sam looks at Dean, there's some kind of plea in his eyes, he's asking for help, and Dean doesn't know how to start this, but it's a two ways street, so, what the hell, uh?

"I'm sorry", is what he says, and Sam looks like that's the last thing he expected to hear. Once he starts, Dean doesn't want to stop, so he goes on, because he needs to say all of this. "I shouldn't have left you like that, I shouldn't have crushed my phone, I shouldn't have done that. For that I'm sorry.". Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Dean doesn't let him. He can't face this, he just can't. He'll say everything he has to say, and then so be it. But he can' t fight. "But you can't do shit like that Sam. I mean- what the hell man?!" and he has to stop there because it's here, again, that feeling. He can't breathe, and the room seems even smaller than before, if possible. He feels his throat tighten and there isn't enough air.

Sam is by his side seconds later, and it's too much, Sam's hands and Dean's shoulders, Sam's mouth muttering non sense, "Dean I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" and "please, please calm down I'm sorry". Feeling Sam's hands on him makes all of this worse, it's too real, Sam is there, just there, and Dean wants to cling to his brother and never let him go. He wants to bury his head in Sam's hair and smell Sam's shampoo, he wants to feel the scar on Sam's lower back under his fingertips, he wants to hold Sam against him, feel him like he always did, feel the kid Sam was, the angsty teenager he'd been, the hunter he is. He wants to push him away, to tell him to leave him, to scream that he can't do this anymore, to yell that Sam ruined this, ruined it all. He wants to yank Sam's hands away, because they burn his skin and makes him dizzy, they're twisting his insides, and mess with his head.

But he doesn't do anything. He lets Sam hold him, he lets him speak, hears the apology and how scared Sam is. He can almost hear Sam's heart, beating frantically, unless it's his own that's making so much noise. Nothing is settled, nothing is solved, and in that chaos, the only thing Dean can focus on is a memory. Scratchy stubbles, hesitant tongues, dry lips. The memory of being right where he wanted to be. The memory of losing his mind. He grabs Sam's shoulders and interrupts Sam's monologue by crashing his mouth on his brother's. It's still wrong, and it's still the best thing in the universe. Sam is still against him, and his lips aren't moving. But Dean doesn't stop, because if he does he'll loose it. It's a confession, a secret that he doesn't whisper in Sam's ear but against his lips. He kisses Sam, and when Sam gasps, Dean slides his tongue in his brother's mouth. And finally, fucking finally, Sam moves.

He holds Dean in his arms, holds him tightly against him, and releases him only to slid the jacket down Dean's shoulders. Once it's off, Sam's hands rove under the edge of Dean's shirt, clutching at his brother's muscles, caressing the skin, setting it on fire. Dean stops fighting, he shuts down his brain, unable to have coherent thoughts anyway. Sam, it's Sam. It's terrifying and unbelievably good. He needed this, he needs it, he needs everything. He deepens the kiss, grazing Sam's tongue and lips, biting lightly and tangling his hands in Sam's hair. They couldn't be more pressed against each other, and Dean doesn't even remember sliding off of his chair, but they're on the floor, clutching desperatly at each other. When they break apart for air, Dean mutters « off », tugging at Sam's shirt and his brother doesn't answer, just pulls his shirt back and yanks it over his head. Dean does the same and his shirt hasn't hit the ground when Sam licks a trail from his chin, sucking on his neck, his Adam's apple, his collarbone, moving lower and lower until he's brushing his lips over Dean's nipples. Dean moans loudly, and there, exactly there, he decides that he needs this more than anything else. He can feel Sam's mouth on him, the playful bites, can feel him sucking and nipping just this side of painful and it's the best thing ever.

They don't say anything, and it's getting dark in the small room. They awkwardly stand up, never leaving each other's lips, and get their jeans and underwear off and that's it, they're naked. It's too much too soon, but they can't stop. They stumble on the bed that protests loudly, not used to handle the weight of two grown up men, but they couldn't care less. Sam is under Dean, sprawled on his back, looking dazed, flushed, gorgeous and fuck, that's not a word Dean wants to use when he thinks about his brother. He wants to do everything, he wants to smell the skin on Sam's belly, he wants to grind against the sharpness of Sam's hipbones, he wants to bite Sam's earlobe, and he wants to fuck Sam, he wants to give him the blowjob of his life, he wants to open him up with his fingers and take it, take everything he didn't know he needed. He should freak out, he should go away, do something, because he's in a too small bed, naked, with his brother, and this is so very very wrong. But he can't. He can't because if he stops touching Sam he'll die. It's so different from what he knows. He's used to breasts and tiny waists, and smooth legs. He's used to being able to cover entire bodies with his own. He's used to high pitched moans. He's used to girls.

But he doesn't stop for a second when he puts his hand around Sam's cock and starts stroking.

"Oh god, D-Dean" are the first words spoken since they started this, and Sam keeps repeating Dean's name, like he can't quite believe this is really happening. Dean keeps stroking him, but this isn't anywhere near enough. Sam seems to get it, and he grabs Dean's hand, pulling him forward until he can suck Dean's fore and middle fingers in his mouth. It sends a shiver rolling down Dean's spine, the muscles in his shoulders and back bunching, and he could come, just like that, just because of the look on Sam's face, pleasure and need mixed up with something deeper, something like adoration and love and it's so beautiful, so perfect, Dean never want to see anything else in his brother's eyes. When Sam releases Dean's fingers with an audible pop, Dean realizes he has stopped stroking Sam's cock, and he's about to do it again when Sam grabs his wrist and shakes his head.

"Stop, I can't- I'm not gonna be able to- if you keep doing this-"

He doesn't finishes his sentences but Dean gets it. When he settles between Sam's thighs, pushes his cheeks apart and rubs his fingers against Sam's hole, Sam knots his fingers into the sheets and tries to muffle a moan.

When Dean pushes one finger inside, Sam's whole body tremble, but he doesn't say anything, and after a while Dean feels the muscle relaxing against his finger. He starts to move, pushing his finger in and out, and then adds another one, until he finds it, that spot that has Sam's back arching off the matress. Dean adds a third finger right away, because he's so hard he's not gonna be able to wait much longer, and from the look of it, neither does Sam. When he thinks he's ready, Dean uses his own precome to slick his cock, and he knows that he's clean, and Sam's clean too, he knows it, so they don't need a condom. Sam seems to think the same thing, because he doesn't stop Dean when he puts the wet head of his cock against his brother's hole, and starts to push. Sam moans but Dean doesn't stop, doesn't think he can. It's only when he's balls deep inside Sam that he waits. They're both panting, their mouths almost touching but not quite, just breathing the same air and staring at each other. Sam is the first to move, and he puts his legs around Dean's waist.

"Move", he whispers against Dean's lips, and that's all it takes. Dean starts moving, lazy thrusts first, and Sam is perfect, tight, so hot inside, so beautiful against the mattress where Dean is fucking a little bit harder with every twitch of his hips. When Sam reaches for his own cock and starts stroking himself, Dean settles into a brutal rhythm, his dick slamming into Sam's ass over and over again. When Sam comes, it's with choked moans and hitched breaths, his whole body snapping tight around Dean, and his come dribbles over his fingers, painting his chest in white streaks. Dean comes right after him, buried in Sam's ass and feeling like he's never gonna be able to move again. He falls on top of Sam, and wishes time could just stop. But Sam whimpers and Dean slowly pulls out.

He's still on top of Sam because the bed is too small and if he rolls on his side, he'll fall on the floor. He absentmindly lets his arms falls on the side and grabs a shirt on the ground. He doesn't know if it's his or Sam but frankly it doesn't matter. He cleans them up, never looking at Sam, the weight of what they just did slowly settling down on his shoulder. He wishes he could just put things on hold. Just a pause, just 5 minutes of "good" because everything ges right to Hell. Sam is quiet but he's brushing his hand along Dean's side. It says more than words, and Dean thinks "fuck it" before he settles half on Sam again, the steady beating of his brother's heart lulling him to sleep.

The next morning feels different. Sam is snoring softly when Dean opens his eyes. He's hungry and remembers that they didn't eat the night before. He also feels like he slept for two days, and judging by the way the sun is already high in the sky, it's already the afternoon. He starts to freak out less than a minute after he wakes up. He feels sick, and the feeling of Sam's skin beneath him is burning him. He wants to go away, and at the same time, he knows he is exactly where he wants to be. Sam must sense him tensing, because the snoring stops and a few seconds later, Sam freezes.

"Dean?", he asks, and it's so small, so not like Sam that Dean woud laugh if he wasn't about to have a panic attack.

"Yeah" is his strangled answer, and that's all he can do, really, that's the best he can give Sam.

"Are you-, are we okay?"

"No."

Sam doesn't say anything after that, but he doesn't move. His hand is lightly settled on Dean's shoulder, holding him there. They stay like this, Dean unable to move, Sam unwilling to let him go. It's Dean who finally breaks the silence again, much to his own surprise. He's not sure what's happening, not sure he can do this. But he knows that he can't go back to those last week, can't loose Sam again.

"I'm gonna need time."

Sam relaxes under him, because they both know what it means. It means Dean is staying. It means that this is still messed up, that they will fight about it again, that it's gonna be hard, but Dean is staying. That's all that matters.


End file.
